


Pink + White (& Blue)

by sweeterthankarma



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Fluff, Hair Dyeing, M/M, Mentions of Coronavirus Lockdown, Post-Season/Series 04, Sander and Robbe live together, but only in the beginning, silver-haired!Sander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthankarma/pseuds/sweeterthankarma
Summary: “What’s your idea?” Robbe asks, because he knows that Sander always has one. Sander doesn’t say anything, just starts pulling the worst quality towels out from the linen closet down the hall, then carries them all into the bathroom. When he starts clearing off the counter of the sink, Robbe starts to catch on."What color?"
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 22
Kudos: 56





	Pink + White (& Blue)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my Tumblr friends who helped me decide what Sander's hair color should be, I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Title is loosely inspired by the song "Pink + White" by Frank Ocean.

Sander doesn’t tell Robbe what he’s got in store when he comes home from work and beelines straight for the bathroom, clear plastic bag in hand with rustling contents Robbe can’t quite make out. He’s got a giddy look in his eyes, bright and amused— both by himself and by Robbe’s reaction, it seems, who watches him with a familiar intrigue, as if expecting mischief. 

Sander lifts him up from the couch with one simple motion as he passes, Robbe’s phone that had been in his hand immediately tucked into his pocket, ignored as soon as Sander’s hand touches his. He carries him along as if pulled by a string, always bringing Robbe along for whatever ride he has planned in store, however exciting or boring it may be, and something— no, everything— about that prospect, that promise, makes Robbe feel equally as elated.

“What’s your idea?” Robbe asks, because he knows that Sander always has one. Sander doesn’t say anything, just starts pulling the worst quality towels out from the linen closet down the hall, then carries them all into the bathroom. When he starts clearing off the counter of the sink, Robbe starts to catch on. 

“What color?” he groans, though he’s smiling. This has become a monthly, if not weekly thing, and of course, it’s fun, but Robbe sort of thinks they should find a new hobby to do together. Robbe’s tired of having the scent of hair dye caught in his throat every time he does as much as enters the bathroom, and also, he’s a little concerned about Sander’s hair. At this rate, it may fall out. 

“What do you think?” 

“For me or for you?” Robbe’s pretty sure he already knows the answer, but it’s always a safe idea to clarify.

“Me,” Sander confirms, “unless you want to finally deflower your _perfect_ virgin hair.” 

He reaches across boxes on boxes of hair dye; there have to be at least ten, and Robbe’s a little concerned that his entire paycheck from last week just went into this instead of groceries. Sander fluffs Robbe’s hair, fingertips catching in the curls, and Robbe bows his head, relishes in it, lets his smile soften. 

His hair is long now, just about halfway down the shell of his ear, and he flips it back with a swift nod of his head. It’s a movement that’s become second nature, one Sander teases him for, except when Robbe uses it against him, knowing that just as much as it makes him roll his eyes and scoff, tell Robbe he looks like a fuckboy, it also can make him lose all concentration, trip on his feet, choke on his food and make him think about choking on other things. 

Okay, so maybe Sander isn’t entirely wrong with the fuckboy assessment. If Robbe’s going to look the part, might as well play the part. 

This time, though, Sander’s attention is all on Robbe’s literal, actual hair. A couple strands are caught between his silver painted nails— last week during another city-wide restriction with nothing else to do, Sander decided to make a trip over to Zoë’s for the sole purpose of obtaining some nail polish that he could use on his latest painting. Why regular paint didn’t suffice for the job Robbe didn’t know and didn’t ask, and Zoë didn’t either, simply handed over a few bottles and suggested he didn’t use them all up. He did, of course.

Now, Sander’s mumbling something about texture and the fineness of Robbe’s hair, still holding on close, and Robbe shakes him off with a gentle push of his hands on his shoulders. 

“I don’t know what any of that means.”

Sander shrugs, his winter coat coming off with it. He hangs it over the shower rod, too lazy to go put it in the closet in their room, and gives Robbe another once over now that he’s free of the extra layers.

“You really don’t want to make a change?” he gestures wildly around Robbe, as if there’s something in his style that isn’t working, but it’s all teasing, just a game. He darts in to kiss Robbe then, as if to prove it, and Robbe sighs into it, realizing it’s the first time they’ve kissed since the morning. Usually Robbe doesn’t let Sander get this far into the house without jumping him, but today he was clearly on a mission he couldn't stop. 

“Hmm, maybe if it’s your doing.” Robbe’s ribbing back, of course, but there’s some validity in that statement, even if only a tiny, minuscule amount. One: yes, he’d let Sander do just about anything he wanted to him(his hair, he means); but also, two: he’s been wondering what he’d look like if he lightened it a bit, or maybe darkened it. Did something daring like Sander’s bleached, white, Jack Frost-esque hair that’s currently back by popular (Robbe’s) demand, or maybe something entirely different, like the bottle of purple now being shaken up between Sander’s already paint-stained hands.

“You need gloves for this,” Robbe says, then bends to look under the bathroom sink for them. He shakes his head a little as his knees crack with the movement, both at himself for being seventeen years old and feeling about seventy, and also at the fact that he’s the one who has to remind Sander of what to do in order to not have his hands look like Violet Beauregarde’s for the next two weeks.

“I’m not sure about this one,” Sander says from above him, looking contemplative as his gaze darts from the unopened box in his palms to the countless others now sitting in the sink, still wet from the last time Robbe washed his hands.

“Hmm, well…” Robbe takes the box from him, flips it over, “it’s called ‘Super Purple,’ that’s not very exciting. Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

Sander snorts. “We’re gonna choose based on the name?”

They end up ranking all the colors based on branding alone, delaying the actual process of hair dying for at least another twenty minutes. All the same, Sander decides on “Punky Pink,” the runner up for worst name behind the abandoned violet. The dye isn’t at all reminiscent of anything even remotely related to punk on the box and Sander doubts it’ll look very bright on him either, but with the white base he has going right now, he figures just about anything will work.

“Let’s just try it,” he says, throwing caution to the wind and egging Robbe on as he’s about to make the first stroke of the dye-covered brush against Sander’s scalp. 

That’s Sander’s exact words a few moments later too, as he eventually opens a box of baby blue and thrusts the bottle towards Robbe.  
“Try this on the tips?”

Robbe gives him an uneasy look. “You sure I know how to do that?”

“I can help,” Sander advises, but in the end Robbe ends up wanting to take leadership, following Sander’s verbal instructions instead of letting him take the reigns. 

“I don’t know how it’ll look,” Robbe admits when it’s done and he steps back to look at Sander. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, as if the current state of Sander’s hair is any indication as to what it’ll look like later, and Sander waves his hand at him, entirely unbothered.

“I can get it done professionally if it all goes to shit. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful though.” He peppers a quick kiss to Robbe’s cheek, gets a dot of paint onto a stray lock of his hair that Robbe doesn’t immediately rush to wash away. Sander considers that a win, one step closer to getting to do something to Robbe's hair, though whether Robbe has even noticed it at all is a different matter altogether. “You’re wonderful.” 

“Sure, sure,” Robbe replies, “because you have money for that after buying out the entire hair products aisle in Kruidvat.”

Sander holds his hands to his chest, feigning mock offense. “I’m a man of constant change, I need all of these. Besides, the shop was closing in ten minutes and there was a man wearing his mask incorrectly coming right towards me while I had all of these in my hands, I just had to run!”

“Oh, never mind, you’re such a hero then."

Robbe hoists himself up onto the sink, knocking over a few boxes in the process, and then goes to reach for Sander’s hand, swinging their arms between them once his fingers settle in their familiar home between Sander’s.

Sander’s hands are calloused and dry, but they hold on to Robbe’s as tight as always. He’s been working with sculptures lately and the weather has been exceptionally cold and rainy lately, a mid-January slump coming full speed ahead towards them, and probably everyone they know, soon enough. It’s been a tough year, the ongoing pandemic still throwing wrenches in Robbe and Sander’s plans, but now that they live together in their own space, things are easier. More comfortable. Better than Robbe’s ever known, that’s for sure. 

His thumb traces a scrape on Sander’s wrist, one similar to a mark Robbe has on his elbow from the other day. They’d both wiped out on the ice outside of their door last weekend, scrambling for purchase in their unequipped sneakers until they bumped into the real culprit of the attack: the pointy gates of the fence around their building’s garden, definitely something that needed to be renovated in the spring. Robbe still doesn’t know yet if Sander has any skills in fixing things beyond the touchy showerhead, but it makes him happy to know he still has so many things left to learn about Sander, things that will someday become second nature, as familiar and anticipated to Robbe as breathing, as touching, as loving each other.

Robbe reaches behind him blindly for the hand lotion, knowing it’s sitting somewhere by their toothpaste— yet definitely should be moved to another location, considering a few weeks ago Aaron and Jens slept over and were both so high that they put the vanilla scented product onto their brushes instead of the mint one. They didn’t even notice until they came out to the living room, telling Sander he had weird taste to buy cupcake flavored toothpaste. Robbe hadn’t let them live it down that night, and he’s not sure he ever will. 

“Give me your hand,” Robbe tells Sander when he tries to adequately moisturize his palm but Sander doesn’t let go, just keeps holding onto Robbe's. 

“Not now,” he whines. "I missed you." then

When the timer on Robbe's phone goes off, indicating the end of the setting period for his new color, he looks unreasonably victorious.

“Aha, can’t moisturize me now.”

Robbe rolls his eyes. _“Allee,_ but I still have to let go to help you with your hair. Or at least say a prayer for it.”

That gets Sander to pull away. “Blasphemy!” he nearly hollers, and Robbe wonders— no, actually, he doesn’t want to know— what their neighbours think goes on in their flat. “My hair doesn’t have the potential to ever look bad.”

Robbe has a response for that on the tip of his tongue, something quippy and smart, but then Sander immediately starts stripping—and _yes,_ Robbe has helped him with his hair countless times, and _yes,_ he still always forgets about this part. He pushes a breath through his nose, only exhales fully when Sander steps under the stream of water and pulls the curtain shut.

“I’ll get the hair dryer,” Robbe mutters, more to himself than anyone. He’s sure Sander can’t hear him; he’s too busy singing some eighties song that Robbe should definitely know the name of— and the album title, and the exact release year, and the band member’s names at this point. If Sander’s taught him anything about life, about love, about himself, he’s taught him a damn good amount of information about art rock. 

“Thanks, babydoll,” Sander replies lowly when Robbe’s almost out the door, and _oh._ So Sander did hear him. Robbe definitely needs to move faster now, knowing that Sander likely has a plan to lure him into the shower and Robbe is anything if not susceptible to his temptations. 

He finds out about an hour later, after Sander’s hair is combed and dried and he’s now given up on it to focus on dinner, that he’s even more impressionable to Sander when he’s like this. The roots of his hair still show, a mix of brown and that silver-white that Robbe might think he’ll always love the most just because of all the memories it brings back to him, the way that he first got to know Sander. Above it is a bright but subdued blush, the color of pink roses, like the ones Sander got him a few weeks ago from a vendor at the Grote Markt while Robbe ran into the pharmacy to pick up his mother’s medication. Robbe had kissed him so hard it hurt afterwards.

He’s about ready to do that now. 

“So I take it you like it?”

“Hmm?” Robbe’s chin is in his palms, his gaze almost disgustingly dreamy. He tries to tone it down, to look away, and immediately finds himself right back where he started. “Yeah, I told you a bunch of times already.”

“Yeah, but...you really like it, don’t you?” 

Sander flips a croque in a pan, and _shit,_ Robbe hadn’t even realized he’d constructed the sandwiches yet. Come to think of it, he’s not even sure he fully realized that’s what they decided on for dinner. 

“Shut up,” Robbe mumbles. The blue on the tips of Sander’s hair, just barely visible, complete the look in a way Robbe honestly wasn’t sure about when Sander first suggested it. Now that he sees it altogether, sees the way the colors intensify when Sander moves, when the light hits him differently…

“Yeah,” he admits.

Sander just beams, as if he didn’t know. Another flip of the croque, and then he asks, “your turn next?”

“Keep cooking, Driesen.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day.
> 
> Come say hi and talk to me about the Skamverse at my Tumblr blog [here](https://sweeterthankarma.tumblr.com/) or at my Twitter account [here!](https://twitter.com/sweeterthnkarma)
> 
> P.S. I'm always more than accepting of people making fan art to go along with my fics (it's actually my favorite thing in the whole world even though it's only happened once) so if anyone wants to help me, and all of us, through this Drijzermans drought and make some art of Sander with his brown-white-pink-blue hair, it would be wholly appreciated. 💓


End file.
